


Growth

by damnitgreenberg



Series: Truth, Danger, and Other Hazards (of Growing Up) [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Family Issues, Gen, Jackson Has Issues, Jackson POV, Jackson's potty mouth, Jackson-Centric, Light Angst, Post-Arson Cleanup, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnitgreenberg/pseuds/damnitgreenberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson’s summer started with fire and ended with ash. It was fitting, in a messed up sort of way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growth

**Author's Note:**

> Not really a story, just an interlude. The true sequel to “See You on the Other Side” is “A Place to Belong”, which should start creeping your way soon.
> 
> Stiles has a panic attack, but, other than that, the worst thing in here, I think, is Jackson's potty mouth.

Jackson’s summer started with fire and ended with ash. It was fitting, in a messed up sort of way.

-

He spent a lot of time at Stiles’ burnt out wreck of a home, tentatively sifting through ash and water damage to pull out what could be salvaged. Jackson wasn’t alone in this; Stiles and McCall and Stiles’ cop father were almost always there too. McCall’s mom came when she could, bearing beverages and food when she couldn’t stay for long, gloves and a can-do attitude when she could.

Lydia always showed up in coveralls, boots, and a hood for her hair, then glared menacingly at anyone who looked at her for too long. She was fucking adorable.

Derek came too. He’d hide until the sheriff left. Then he would emerge from the surrounding woods like something out of a horror movie. He was a one man army and, when he was working, no one dared to talk. No one dared to socialize. No one dared to crack a joke.

Derek’s absolute foreboding energy clashed with the gentle way he shook pictures free of ash.

-

Stiles’ room was completely gone. Gutted and charred to ash, it was a gaping hole you could look up into from the kitchen floor, if you dared. 

Jackson remembered when that finally clicked in Stiles’ head. Stiles had stopped mid-sentence, breath going faint as he drifted semi-gracefully to his knees, fingers gripping his mandatory hard hat as his knuckles turned white. 

McCall picked him up, carried him out of the house, and sat him in the scorched backyard, rubbing his back and talking to him until Stiles had color back in his face again.

Loss was uncomfortable to watch.

-

After day 11 of going through the remains of the house, someone ‘remembered’ they all missed Stiles’ birthday back in the spring. Everyone jumped on the less than subtle excuse and they threw him belated birthday party. Derek was the only one who didn’t show.

Behind the cheery seventeen candles, Stiles was visibly dumfounded and uncomfortable, but also genuinely pleased about the laptop they all had kicked in to get him. 

It had been eight years since he celebrated a birthday, McCall told them later. That was another thing Jackson and Stiles had in common.

There was already a surprisingly long list.

-

After two weeks of going through collapsed walls and charred wood, Derek stomped into the backyard, carrying out the fireproof safe over his head like a hunter triumphantly displaying his kill to the masses. 

It was gigantic and heavy—though that was relative to werewolves—and had everything from the sheriff’s extra firearm to Stiles’ birth certificate to some bullshit lump of clay Stiles made in first grade. 

Stiles fell on it like he was starving, fingers clinging to the edges of soot covered metal like he was afraid the earth was going to open up and swallow it, taking it away from him once again.

-

Stiles’ cop father made noises about safety and being supervised when they were packing up the house, but he only ever booted them out when the inspectors came that one day. 

The consensus that they came to was that, while the fire had been contained to the back of the house, the structural and water damage was too much to justify simple renovation. The Stilinskis had to tear the entire thing down and start over. 

This hit the two of them hard. There were memories there, embedded deep in the house from the wallpaper to the amateur stained glass window in the office, and they were all going to go away.

Everyone had a different way of trying to cheer up the father and son duo, ranging from optimistic appeals to new starts to charts displaying improved market value.

Jackson just watched, pulling threads out of his shirt sleeve until the material pulled tight.

-

“This was my fault.” 

Stiles was sitting in the grass of his backyard, legs crossed in front of him and fingers twisting blades in braids.

“No, it wasn’t,” Jackson groused. Their circle was having an impromptu picnic to cheer Stiles up, but Jackson and Stiles were the only two outside at the moment, and that was already getting old. “Did you start the fire, dumb ass?”

“Indirectly, maybe.” Stiles opened his hand. His palm was stained green. “I sorta attacked the guy after what happened to my dad.”

“Hm.” Jackson readjusted his weight on his hands, tipping his head back to the sun. “Not surprising.” Then, after a beat, he said, “About you winning, yes. You starting it, no. You’re an angry little shithead.” 

The insult carried a little too much truth for Jackson’s liking. He closed his eyes briefly, remembering having those cold eyes directed towards him, remembering being the target of that ruthless vicious anger. 

Stiles hadn’t deserved what Jackson did to him in the locker room this summer, but Jackson _maybe_ deserved getting punched for trying to put the sheriff between them and an insane rampaging alpha werewolf. Maybe.

“I cheated.”

“Also not surprising.” 

There was a long pause. Jackson blinked away the sun, then directed his gaze back at Stiles. Stiles was hunched over, shoulders tight and mouth pulled into a flat frown. Then Jackson sighed. He couldn’t believe he had to do this….

“ _Stiles_. He threw a fire bomb at your dad first. He was gunning after him way before you made yourself a target.” 

Stiles snorted, turning his face away. He twisted the grass braid in his hand until it snapped.

Scowling, Jackson stretched out his foot and kicked his knee. “Look, if you’re not gonna let me blame myself for the kanima, then... then I’m not gonna let you blame yourself for this.” Jackson swallowed and then said thickly, “This was all Cody. Just like the kanima was all Matt and Gerard. Right?”

That got Stiles’ attention. He looked back at Jackson, eyebrows high on his forehead. They stared at each other for a moment longer, uncomfortable on this shaky, unfamiliar ground. Then Stiles smiled slightly, bobbing his head in a slight nod. 

A huge knot in Jackson’s throat loosened and stopped strangling him. He stared up at the sun.

-

Derek found a wooden beam in the attic with dashes and dates on it. When no one was in the house, he very carefully cut it out with his claws. Thank God it wasn’t load bearing, the moron.

Earlier that same day, McCall pried the stained glass window out and wrapped it up thickly in tissue paper, resting it reverently in a sea of packing peanuts when he was done. 

Isaac went home, sat down with a thick phone book, and found three different sources for the same sort of wall paper in every room. That day onward, he took to casually leaving contacts and magazines in places where someone would find them, helpful notes carefully crammed in margins and over pictures. 

They were all trying to minimize the loss as much as they could, and Jackson felt distinctly left behind, like he’d missed several How To Be A Good Person classes. How did they know what to do? How did they figure out what was important? Why were they so good at anticipating people’s needs?

It seemed so… exhausting. And anxiety provoking. Like Jackson wanted to do something, to put his best foot forward in this and help, but also like he didn’t know where the ground was or what would help. What would hurt.

Then, one day, Lydia dragged Jackson to the backyard, face flushed and hair sticking to her cheek. She had found a slightly discolored cement block near the foot of the house, and she pointed him to it with a grim frown. 

Once upon a time, when the cement was wet, two mischievous people had pressed their hands into it and left behind their names. The child’s signature was too shaky to read, but the gentle curves of the name ‘Claudia Stilinski’ was easy to see even years later. 

Jackson knew in a blinding second of epiphany that the child in question would be devastated if they couldn’t save this one last piece of his dead mother. Heart racing, Jackson dropped to his knees in front of it, clapping his hands over the cement.

They ended up renting a jackhammer, if only to hide the fact that a frantic teenage werewolf managed to rip a cement block out of a wall with his bare hands.

-

Derek was at the ruined house a lot, even when the rest of them were not. 

Jackson watched Derek pretend to leave one day when everyone else was dispersing. He watched his alpha pause and squint at the house in the orange blaze of the sunset, wondering if Derek wished he could have done the same for the wreck in the middle of the woods—if he’d had the time to grab some things before he and his sister fled. Jackson wondered if he came back to find his house had been looted, that precious things had escaped melting and incineration, only to be stolen.

-

Their small social circle weren’t the only ones who got involved in helping the Stilinskis out, of course. How could they be? It was the story of the decade—arson committed against their very own sheriff and murder attempted against his very own son. Some people got involved for the gossip value alone.

It was their social circle that dirtied their hands, sifting through ash and charred wood and melted plastic, but there were also fundraisers and contact made with relief organizations. The insurance expedited the investigation. The McCall’s fridge was packed full of casseroles, stacked three high and three deep. 

Three local companies offered their services at a quarter of the price. Robert Whittemore made a few calls and then four more offers barreled in. Jackson’s dad didn’t say a word about it and never took any credit, but Jackson heard him through the floors of house in the early morning hours as his father cajoled people into being good and neighborly—part lawyer, part salesman, part politician.

Jackson pressed his cheek into his mattress, overwhelmed and, for the first time, proud of what his dad did.

He wondered if this was how Stiles and McCall felt all the time. 

-

The Stilinskis shook off whatever inertia paralyzed them and put such somber looks on their faces. They moved forward, stopped talking about what ifs and started talking about the future.

They were talking to an architect about putting in a basement. Basements in California were more of the exception rather than the rule, but the idea of having one was appealing. Stiles was dreaming of safe rooms, of places to put a werewolf if she or he got out of hand. His dad thought of an extra storage place that didn’t come with the risk of putting a foot through a ceiling.

They talked about creation so they don’t have to think so much about destruction, or the growing space between them, the one widened by Stiles’ impromptu incident report about Gerard Argent. Sometimes, it was like that rift wasn’t even there. 

Sometimes when he watched them, Jackson thought he should be taking notes.

-

Towards the end of the summer, Lydia hosted a party at her house. Not everyone was invited—just the group of them and their parents. 

The adults were busy awkward mingling with each other towards the back of the yard, past the pool. Jackson’s adopted parents were standing together, drinks in hand. There was lingering tension between Robert and the sheriff, but it was continually broken by Melissa. The more Jackson heard her talk, the more he realized which McCall Scott took after the most.

_Scott._ Yeah, Jackson was trying that now. Last names were for team mates and acquaintances, not for… whatever Scott was turning out to be.

It was a slow process. 

Scott was standing with Lahey—damnit, _Isaac_ —and comparing final summer school grades with the rush and enthusiasm of a newfound shared hobby.

Stiles was closest to Jackson, sitting on the edge of the pool, alone, staring unblinkingly at his best friend.

“What’s up, loser.” Jackson lowered himself next to Stiles, sticking his feet in the water.

He was feeling the distinct absence of Danny, who’d left three weeks ago to visit family in Hawaii. Lydia was inside, talking to her father on the phone. Jackson could see her through the window.

“No. No, I don’t own the entire state of California,” Lydia was saying flatly, echoing the person on the phone. “I’m just saying- I’m just- Fine! Do whatever you want. Congratulations on steam rolling your way into yet another place you aren’t wanted!” There was a pause, then she was blustering, “For the last time, I don’t want to go to your freaking wedding. What? No, I’m not being emotional. It’s not my fault you _won’t take no for an answer_!”

Lydia turned slightly. She flushed darkly when she met his gaze, knowing he could hear that whole hissed conversation. She slammed the window shut.

It looked like Jefferson Martin wasn’t going to win that Father of the Year award anytime soon.

Jackson focused on Stiles, noticing he hadn’t stopped staring. “What, can’t share?” he goaded.

Stiles bristled at his tone. “He’s allowed to have other friends,” he said defensively. Too defensively. “And so am I.” Then Stiles suddenly looked at him with a strange mix of defiance and trepidation and- 

Oh. 

_Oh._

_Jackson_ was Stiles’ other friend. Gross.

Staring at the pool for a few moments, Jackson tried to figure out how he felt about that. Dazed, maybe. Confused, definitely. But he wasn’t rejecting it. He wasn’t.

“I still don’t like McCall,” Jackson said finally, with some relief.

“His name is Scott,” Stiles replied, “and you are deeply flawed.”

Outraged by that, Jackson elbowed Stiles. Stiles elbowed him back. Jackson pushed him once. Stiles pushed him back. Before Jackson knew it, they were play fighting, swatting and pinching and pushing at each other—dodging each other as they moved. They were standing a moment later, Jackson with Stiles in a headlock—Stiles breathless and squawking, Jackson loud and boasting.

This was nothing worse than he’d done with Danny or a well-liked teammate. Nothing like he’d do to a fellow werewolf while training. It was playful, friendly. Even so, later, part of him would still in awe that he’d dared to touch Stiles, not when the dull thud of his head hitting locker still factored in his nightmares.

Then Stiles grabbed fistfuls of Jackson’s shirt and pivoted sharply. They both pitched into the pool without any warning.

When Jackson surfaced, irritated and feeling like a wet cat, Stiles was laughing so hard, he was choking on water.

They were fished out by McCall and Lahey—damnit, Scott and _Isaac_. Keenly and suddenly aware of his father and Stiles’ watching them, Jackson wrung water from his shirt before dragging Stiles over to the drinks cooler to criticize his choice of beverage. Stiles lumbered after him inelegantly, still more leg than grace, even at seventeen, but Jackson was grateful he didn’t resist.

He wanted to keep doing this somewhere where he knew he wasn’t being judged, where he knew not every action he made towards Stiles was being weighed against his previous stupidity. Jackson still wasn’t sure he liked Stiles, still wasn’t sure there could be a Jackson Whittemore who was friendly with a Stiles Stilinski, but still… still, he was protective of what odd, weird, and weak thing that sprung up between them recently.

Even if it died, this summer had officially ruined any hate he had for Stiles. He wasn’t all that broken up about it. 

The barbecue went on. Stiles’ cop father stopped giving Jackson laser eyes. His adoptive parents were warming up, laughter becoming more frequent. Scott and Isaac and Stiles splashed around the pool like a bunch of jack asses, gleeful and loud.

Jackson sat on a lounge chair, glasses firmly on his face, pretending like he was ignoring them all. 

The illusion was shattered when Lydia slipped in next to him, squeezing between him and the arm rest. She fit easily, but that didn’t stop her from draping herself over him, tucking her head under his chin. Jackson moved to accommodate her, opening his arms and shifting as needed. 

“You okay?”

There was a pause. Then Lydia sighed. “I’m handling it,” she said grimly.

After a beat, Jackson nodded. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. They weren’t into public displays—not unless they were trying to make someone uncomfortable—but he could think of nothing better to say.

Lydia smiled and threaded her fingers through his.

-

Jackson climbed out of Lydia’s car, slamming the door behind him. He caught up with her, his quick footsteps adding to the noise created by heels hitting asphalt. They slowed down in front of the Stilinski house, edging around construction trucks. 

They were going to bring the whole place down, starting today. Everyone was dreading it. 

The McCalls were already there, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Stilinskis. Isaac came around the corner then, neck bent slightly, looking awkward, like he was expecting to be sent away. He perked up when Melissa McCall just reached out to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. 

Jackson suddenly had no doubt that, if he looked hard enough, he scanned all the corners and crevices and stretches of shadow around them, he’d find his alpha there somewhere, brooding and silent and in his own sort of hell.

He didn’t look for Derek.

Instead, he followed Lydia and stood on the other side of the Stilinskis, sandwiched between the Sheriff and his girlfriend. The Sheriff smiled at him faintly, preoccupied, and clapped his shoulder. Stilinski turned his gaze back to the house.

The empty house. The silent house. The house with no curtains, no furniture, and too many memories—good and bad.

Stiles knocked his shoulder into his dad’s. They shared a long look, then Stilinski was ruffling Stiles’ hair with an idle hand. 

“Have at it, boys,” the Sheriff called peacefully. The demolition workers, who had patiently waited for them, started working on the house, bringing the damaged thing to the ground.

Where there was fire, there was always growth.


End file.
